


Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw

by SittingOnACornflake



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Hamburg, Harry Potter References, I'll add tags later, basically it's just george and ringo being potterheads, references to christopher paolini bc i desperately wanna reread brisingr, set before fame, they go to a harry potter convention, this fic is so very niche why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: “You should swing by tomorrow as well,” Paul'd said. “I want you to meet my little brother.”Ringo had expected many things when the door to Paul’s house had opened. A chubby four year old, a grumpy teenager, a Paul lookalike?He certainly hadn’t expected a tall, dark-eyed Ravenclaw to grin at him and usher him in.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, George Harrison & Ringo Starr
Comments: 37
Kudos: 21





	1. Paul's Little Brother

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story, let's pretend Harry Potter was written by someone nice. Like Umbridge, maybe?

“You should swing by tomorrow as well,” Paul'd said. “I want you to meet my little brother.”

That was an odd thing to ask, as Ringo’s mind reminded him. He was already _two_ whole years older than Paul. Admittedly, he enjoyed the time he spent with his mate. They'd met a few months ago and had become rather close friends, bonding over music and talks about politics because _yay_ , at last Ringo'd met someone who didn’t hurriedly changed the subject when they discovered the other didn’t have the same exact opinion as them. Paul liked to discuss things thoroughly, and it was a _relief_ as well as rather demanding – Paul's mind was really quick, he navigated between subjects like he had a remote control in his brain, and Ringo constantly had to adapt if he wanted to keep up.

He liked all that, but when Paul had told him about his little brother, Ringo had almost asked if he didn’t have a friendly _older_ brother instead. Someone who wouldn’t still be in high school, for a change.

But Paul, he knew, only had _one_ brother, so it had to be that smaller one. And maybe Ringo would really like him, since Paul seemed to make quite a fuss about him. Whenever they talked about school, he always complained about how the other students were so narrow-minded and childish. If someone younger than him had passed the test, they must have something about themself.

It wasn’t like Ringo wouldn’t have given that brother a chance, anyway. Still, it was with that thought in mind that the following day – a Sunday – he left his flat and headed to Paul's family house, choosing to walk rather than to take the bus.

Ringo had expected many things when the door to Paul’s house had opened. A chubby four-year-old, why not? A grumpy pre-teenager, a Paul lookalike? All these seemed equally likely. He'd forgotten to ask Paul how old his brother was.

He certainly hadn’t expected a tall, dark-eyed Ravenclaw to grin at him, open the door wider and step aside to let him in.

Ringo stood still for a few moments, detailing the other lad's features. He had a tall, slender frame and looked like he’d grown too suddenly. His trousers made that very clear by showing his ankles. His shirt’s sleeves were a tad too short. The lad was also wearing a blue, sleeveless knitted sweater that looked like he'd found it at a thrift store. A blue and brown scarf hung around his shoulders, much more like an ornament that anything else. His face was delicate, although not in Paul's style. He has the most prominent cheekbones Ringo had ever seen, and when he saw Ringo was frozen in place, he didn’t stop grinning, revealing sharp canines as he said, “Wanna come in, mate? It's really cold, you know.”

His voice was somehow situated between a drawl and a quip. It had that nasal sound about it. Ringo loved that voice at once.

“Sorry,” he said as he hurriedly stepped in, hoping the lad would reply and say something else. _That voice!_ He just had to hear it again.

But the stranger didn’t say anything, instead returning to the living room like it wasn’t his business if Ringo managed to lock the door or not – and, _okay,_ he succeeded, but it would have been nice of him to wait. Except that Ringo didn’t even know that stranger’s name.

All he knew was this: it wasn’t Paul's little brother.

He kicked off his shoes and hung his coat before following the other into the living room.

It was a normal living room, which bore a true resemblance to Ringo’s mom own living room. Old, slightly yellowish lace curtains, a thick rug on the floor and a TV in a corner, right next to an antique record player. Two massive armchairs ... and a brown couch, on which the dark-haired lad was currently sat, upright as if ready to hurry somewhere else, but overwise oblivious to Ringo's presence. He'd taken out a little notebook and was writing something down.

_Homework?_ Ringo wondered before slightly shaking his head in answer to his own question. _No. That wouldn’t explain the crooked smile. Except if he's_ that much _of a Ravenclaw and enjoys doing extra math homework while at a friend’s._

_It's high time I stopped classifying people according to their Hogwarts house_ , he then though as he stood there on the threshold, hopping from one foot to the other, unsure about what to do. Should he just sit and wait? Go look for his host? Paul was nowhere in sight, and, to be honest and to return to a much more pressing matter, Ringo had tried many times to stop looking for hints meaning some random dude belonged in Hufflepuff or not. It never had worked. He'd discovered Harry Potter when he was much too young, couldn’t let go of it now that he'd enjoyed the wizarding world during almost three quarters of his life. _I guess I’ll still have fun with that little game when I’m old and bald,_ he thought before making up his mind and resolutely heading for one of the armchairs.

The lad didn’t do as much as spare him a glance, and Ringo took it as an opportunity to look him over one more time. _Yes. Definitely a Ravenclaw_ , he thought as the stranger turned another page of his notebook, scribbling relentlessly.

“Found them, Geo!” a voice interrupted his staring.

Ringo blushed and jerked his head away – _Merlin, Richard, you don't stare at people like that, especially when you don't know their name and when they're apparently not even 18, they're gonna think you're checking them out_ , the reasonable voice in his head, which wasn’t the same as the one that shouted Ravenclaw or Slytherin at the worst times, scolded him. Hoping his awkwardness wouldn’t show, he smiled and greeted Paul who'd just entered the room, a little box in his hand.

“Oh, you're here!” Paul exclaimed. “You’ve met Geo, then!”

“Sort of,” Ringo said, not really knowing how to say that – _your friend let me in but has been ignoring me for five minutes_ seemed a bit rude towards said friend. Ringo spared the other lad a glance. 'Geo' had swiftly pocketed his little notebook when Paul had arrived, and now leaned casually against the pillows piled on the couch, observing them with an expression that looked too relaxed to not be at least a bit fake. Ringo almost smiled fondly as he understood in a moment of clarity – _yes, Paul can be a nosy friend sometimes. Better hide that notebook if you don't want it to be snatched from you when you least expect it_.

Paul, though, didn’t see anything more to the scene that two friends that didn’t know one another yet _._ “Let me guess,” he chuckled. “He’s been staring at you for all the time you've been waiting?”

_I was the one staring_ , Ringo thought with a little uneasiness– but why did he have to be overtaken by this guilty feeling? His mind wasn’t functioning properly today. Instead of saying what he thought, he nodded, resolutely ignoring the stranger who had his eyes fixed on him.

“That’s Geo, me mate,” Paul said. “We take the same bus to go to the Liverpool Institute.”

“Sure Paul. That's the only thing we have in common,” retorted the other.

“Oh, now you're speaking again!” Paul smirked.

And, indeed, his voice was as delightful to hear as Ringo had found it the first time he'd heard it.

“Geo, I told you about Ringo,” Paul went on.

“Yeah,” George simply said before eyeing Ringo again.

Until then, Ringo had kept his eyes on Paul only, but now sensed to go on would seem rude.

“Nice to meet you,” he offered.

His eyes met George's. It felt as if he was scanned from the inside and that his whole brain was on display. He shrugged imperceptibly. _Nonsense._ That lad might be a Ravenclaw, but he couldn’t read minds, nor did he have the right to make one feel so uncomfortable ...

Just as Ringo was thinking _it's all in my head and I need to stop reading fantasy books_ , George turned away and addressed Paul.

“He's a Hufflepuff, that one.”

Paul facepalmed.

Ringo nearly did the same.

_How. On. Earth._

The lad barely knew his name, had never talked to him except to tell him to get the fuck in, and now he was ... categorising him? And categorising him _right_. No matter how many leather jackets he owned no matter how much time he spent in front of the mirror practising stern faces whenever he was bored, Ringo had always felt like a Hufflepuff. But usually, people didn’t see it, thanks to all the leather and stern looks made the trick.

But ... Maybe people didn’t send him to Hufflepuff because they simply didn’t ever think of Hufflepuff in the first place. Ringo rarely met people who loved the wizarding world as much as him. Most times, the people who noticed at last that he liked Harry Potter took it as their clue to criticize it. But it seemed “George” wasn’t like that.

_This lad. He thinks like me. He thinks hogwartswise._

“You've gotta stop,” Paul said.

He was talking to George but Ringo took it for himself nonetheless, trying to shake the thoughts away as much as he could.

George ignored Paul completely, this time talking to Ringo with a crooked smile that could have been endearing if Ringo hadn’t felt it was stripping him bare. “Hufflepuff is fine, mate. Good house. You ...”

“Geo, I swear to God! You're gonna scare him off!”

“No!”

“You will, now shut!”

George furrowed his brows but sank a bit into the couch, eyes throwing daggers at Paul but otherwise silent.

“Uh ... I'm still here,” Ringo intervened.

If anything, he was getting more puzzled by the minute. Why would Paul be scared he might leave anyway?

“Of course he's still here,” George said triumphantly, “he’s a ...”

Paul seized a cushion and threw it right in the lad's face.

“Careful!” George immediately said, sending it back at Paul and seizing the guitar that lay next to him. Ringo only noticed it then, but caught a very brief glimpse of it since George quickly put it back in its case before carefully setting said case at the foot of the couch. “You could have sent it to the ground, you know.”

“Would have served you right,” Paul muttered. “Scaring my guest off with your weird obsessions.”

The two of them glanced at one another with flushed cheeks. _Children_ , Ringo chuckled inwardly before deciding it was the right time to cut in. “I’m not scared off, you know.”

From angry, Paul's face suddenly became playful. _He's gonna get his revenge somehow,_ Ringo realized. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the lad had in mind, but was grateful not to be on the receiving line anyway.

“Oh, really? That's because you haven’t seen anything yet,” he smirked.

Paul usually seemed pretty harmless, with these chubby cheeks and delicate features, but there was something devilish about him now.

“I don't need ...” Ringo began, trying to save the other lad from whatever was coming – and why? Why on earth was he trying to help him? Was the fact that he was _very much_ a Hufflepuff justification enough? His efforts, however, were cute short by Paul who went on and ordered, “Geo. Book one. Chapter one. The Boy Who Lived. _Now_.”

“No way,” George said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“And may we know why?”

“I merely said _Hufflepuff_ and went on, Paul. You've embarrassed me in front of your friends enough times with that. I've learned the lesson. Sorry,” he added, turning to Ringo. “I’m not performing anymore.”

“Brat,” Paul said.

He plopped into the other armchair next to Ringo and seized another guitar, making Ringo wonder if he'd become blind during the night. How many guitars were there in this place? He observed as Paul took out a chord from the little box and began fastening it to his guitar. Neither George nor Paul said anything, so Ringo remained silent too.

“Geo, G chord,” he said once he was satisfied with it. He plucked the chord; the sound came out as anything but a G. “Will you do that for me at least.”

“Aaaaaaah,” George said in answer.

At first, Ringo wondered what the other could have just realized that made him react so loudly, but then he understood George was merely singing the chord Paul needed. George then bent down and took out his guitar from its case again. He plucked the G chord himself and smiled.

“Not bad,” he commented. I wasn’t that far from it.

Paul turned and twisted the tuning peg, every time coaxing sounds that resembled what he wanted a bit more.

“Aaah, creme tangerine and biscuits, pudding and shortbreads,” George sang relentlessly while plucking the chord rhythmically with every word he said, “are you nearly done Paulie I’m nearly out of breath, aaah bouillabaisse.”

“Bouillabaisse?” Paul repeated, gesturing to George to show him he could stop. “You didn’t even need to sing in the first place! Is that a Harry Potter reference too?”

George flashed him an innocent grin. “Of course not.”

“Impressive,” Ringo finally said. An idea popped into his mind. George seemed to play the guitar. Maybe he could ask, very casually, to listen to one song. He liked George's singing voice even better than his talking one. His voice managed to be cutting, keeping that edge that was almost a snicker, and still it was melodious. Paul and George gave him a curious look, interrupting his thoughts. _Right._ “My bandmates always use a tuner app, but this is much more fun.”

“Oh, thanks,” Paul beamed. “That’s one of Geo's many uses, even it's less precise.”

“I’m not a thing, McCartney,” George frowned, tone threatening.

“Of course not. In fact, you're pretty useless when you refuse to quote that damn thing,” Paul said.

“He’s at it again,” George sighed.

“Mr and Mrs Dursley, from 4, Privet Drive, had always claimed they were perfectly normal, thank you very much,” Ringo interrupted.

Both lads turned to him with blank faces and open mouths.

“You ...” Paul began accusingly before being stopped by a very, very obnoxious ringing. “We’re not done with this!” he warned them both as he rushed out of the room.

Hopefully he'd find that phone within seconds. That ringtone was the worst thing Ringo had ever heard. _UFO sounds, really?_

George and he were once more left alone, but this time George didn’t ignore him. He kept staring at him instead. Ringo wasn’t sure he liked that option better. After all, George had established he was a pretty obvious Hufflepuff. _What else could need to be said?_ He thought dismissively.

“Is that really his ringtone?” he chuckled awkwardly as the sound finally, _finally_ stopped, replaced by Paul's overexcited voice.

“Yeah,” George said curtly.

He kept looking at Ringo who gradually felt himself losing his nerves. _I don't understand why he's acting like this_. _Why does this Ravenclaw have to be such a mystery?_ _I'm 19. That's at least two years more than this ... baby ... More than 700 days. I should be the one making him nervous._

With that, he found it in him to talk, although not with a laid-back tone as he wished.

“Is there a problem?”

“Mind if I ask you three questions? You’re puzzling,” the dark-eyed lad said.

_Me, puzzling? Who is he kidding?_ Ringo thought, nevertheless motioning him to go on.

“Do you really like HP?”

Ringo was unable to hold back a relieved sigh.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled. George's stare remained cold and piercing.

“What's the code to enter the Ministry of Magic?” he asked.

Ringo thought about it for a second. That had been his password at some point. He _knew_ it.

“Mmm, 62, 442? I think,” he finally tried, looking back at George, waiting for confirmation.

“You're a real one,” George stated.

“A real Potterhead?”

“A real Hufflepuff. You know you're one, because you know the houses. Glad to meet you, mate.”

Ringo didn’t have time to react. George sprung from the couch and gave him a hug, hands setting in his back and holding him close for a quarter of second before casually sitting back like nothing had happened ... except that he now had that friendly glint in his eyes. But maybe Ringo was reading too much into eyes. Or perhaps it was just George’s. _For God's sake, snap out of it._

“What was your third question, then?” he asked.

“Oh, that,” George said. For once he looked almost flustered and looked away for a second. “What's my house, in your opinion?”

Ringo didn’t have to think this one twice. “Ravenclaw,” he stated firmly.

George's grin was worth millions.

Ringo wouldn’t have been able to explain it, but somehow after that it felt that George and he had silently stated they were friends, that it was a given.

“So. What did you do last night?” George asked.

Last night, Ringo had played with his band. One thing led to another and soon George knew everything about how Ringo had joined Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. He himself learned quite a bit about George and what he liked.

They didn’t even need to talk about anything related to Harry Potter, and Ringo marvelled at it when he realized Paul had been gone for half an hour now.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he smiled at his new friend. “When’s Paul's brother supposed to come home?”

“Mike? Uh ... I think he and Paul's Dad won't be home until late. Went to see an aunt or something.”

“Weird,” Ringo commented. “Paul told me to come today because he wanted me to meet him.”

A deep sigh answered him.

“He's got to _stop_ ,” George said.

Ringo must have looked puzzled because George then added, “He meant _me_. He meant me and I’m really glad I met you mate, but he's gotta bloody stop.”

“ _You_ , my friend, are in trouble,” Paul's voice cut in as sauntered back at that precise moment.

_Perfect timing,_ Ringo grimaced. _Or worse, depends._

“Oh, no Paul. _You_ are the one in trouble,” George said.

This was happening just as Ringo had thought it would. It seemed these two couldn’t do anything but become chaotic, bickering brothers when they were together. _Paul might be wrong about the “little” part, but he sure is right about the family link._ Unbothered and quite comfortable in his armchair, he settled on simply letting them sort it out, to the sound of “ _eight months! Eight goddamn months, Paul”_ and “ _it's a way to say I like you, you git!”_ to which “ _then be the ‘little_ ’ _one yourself”_ were quickly retorted.

Wandering around the room, Ringo’s eyes finally settled on George’s hands. Long, thin fingers fiddled with the chords of his guitar, as if playing a soundless melody. Something only George could hear, of maybe not even him since it didn’t prevent him from spatting back at Paul every time his friend had to take in a breath.

“Ringo!” his name said by a singsong voice made him snap out his trance – trance? Barely. Not even close. Nothing at all, really.

“What?”

“I said, Will you come and see our gig next Friday?” Paul repeated, sharing an amused look with George.

Ringo definitely must have zoned out longer than he thought. Or maybe these two had the ability to shift moods at the exact same time. Probably to catch their preys by surprise.

_Except I’m not a prey. I'm a grown up and I’m responsible_ , he thought as he smiled at them. “Of course. Been wanting to see your band for a while,” he informed Paul. “Where is it?”

_The Cavern, Friday, 8 o'clock_. He couldn’t wait to see George play – and Paul, of course. But mostly George, because Paul wasn’t a fellow Hogwarts student.


	2. At the Cavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringo goes to the Cavern and meets the rest of Paul and George's band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the first one, I hope you don't mind. I apologize for the mistakes that might be left, I reread it but I barely slept last night (yay).
> 
> That being said, I love writing this story and I hope you'll like this second chapter!

Ringo had played at the Cavern more than once himself. Hell, he was there only a few days before with another mate. He _should_ have known better than to arrive late – that place is so damn small that if you didn't reserve a spot there was no chance you'd be able to see whoever was performing. Not even a glimpse, which was downright outrageous considering there was an actual stage. The band playing was standing higher than the crowd. Or _should_ have been, if Ringo himself hadn’t stopped growing abruptly when he was sixteen.

When he entered the Cavern, all he was thus able to see was backs. _Seems everyone in this place is trying to ignore me_ , he thought with a smile. Used to it, he pushed past the crowd, getting to the bar and ordering something to drink. Once the bottle was in his hand, he scanned the crowd once more. Admittedly, he could elbow his way to the stage. The problem wasn’t about reaching it but about not being crushed once you were there.

He'd better stay here, he decided. As if taking it as their cue to leave, someone abandoned their stool right next to him. Comfortably seated, and at least a bit above the crowd, he then tried to pay attention to the music.

“Hey mate, what's the name of the band?” he asked his neighbour.

“No idea! ‘s pretty shitty though,” the guy slurred back before dedicating all his attention to his drink again.

You couldn't really say that the band – whatever its name was, since Ringo’s selective memory was at it again – was shit, though. One simply could not hear them, and Ringo knew it wasn’t simply due to his years of drumming. They didn’t have mics, nor amps. Only their voices and their instruments, and they might have been very good but they simply couldn’t compete with the chatter of the crowd, the laughter and all that hubbub that seemed to arise from nothingness every time you squeezed too many people in too little a space.

Sounds that could very well belong to a guitar or drums occasionally reached his ears, but it only lasted for a few seconds.

The gig went on and on. Not that it was really one to him. But he had the time to go to the loo twice and drink three beers, wondering why he was staying as he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. He had his eyes fixed on his (empty) bottle of beer, feeling something akin to melancholy when he felt a hand clasp his back.

“There you are! We've been wondering if you'd come,” Paul smiled.

Hid cheeks were flushed and his eyes glowed.

“I’m here,” Ringo said uselessly, lifting his bottle for Paul to see.

Maybe he should have eaten something before coming. Three beers and nothing else apparently didn’t do wonders with his conversation skills.

“What do you think, then?” Paul asked excitedly. “We any good?”

“Course we're good, Macca,” a voice answered before Ringo could make up a sentence that _didn’t_ involve him burping into Paul's face.

Paul swirled around gracefully. Only seeing that movement made Ringo’s head spin a bit before he managed to focus his attention on the newcomer. Or newcomers, rather. The drawling voice belonged to a tall, auburn-haired lad that seemed to be about Ringo’s age. There also were a very blonde lad, and another one who Ringo immediately categorised as _artistic Hufflepuff._ George was next to them, looking extremely young. He waved at him with an amused look.

“John!” Paul smiled. “Guys, this is my friend Ringo. Ringo, these are ...”

A bunch of names quickly followed, and Ringo quickly stopped paying attention – not that it wasn’t interesting to learn what _artistic Hufflepuff_ and the others were called, but, well. Getting off his stool without staggering nor losing his balance was taking every little concentration he'd had in the beginning. He smiled and nodded, hoping he didn’t sound as disconnected as he seemed.

“What’s your opinion on the show, then?” John _– yes, at least this name he knew_.

“Oh, um, you were alright,” Ringo babbled.

A lie couldn’t hurt, could it? It was a pretty blank answer. John would probably think he was kind of lame, but that would be better than the truth. _We can't hear you from the bar, mate._

Ringo certainly didn’t expect John to clap him on the shoulder, grinning.

“He thinks we're alright!” he exclaimed. “Reminds me of something, doesn’t it Paulie? That makes me think – come on, I need to show you something. See you next time Rings!”

With that, John dragged Paul away. Ringo saw his friend wave at him with an apologetic but very proud face.

“T’was great to meet you,” said artistic Hufflepuff with a polite smile.

He and blonde drummer left shortly after that. Only George remained there, and he perched himself on a stool, the one that had been occupied by the drunk man earlier. Ringo hadn’t seen him leave. With a frown, he sat back on his stool, careful to only make slow movements. _Never trip in front of a Ravenclaw_ , his twelve-year-old mind reminded him unexpectedly, _they might help you up but they'll write an essay about it afterwards._

He chuckled at the thought.

“What?” George asked.

“Nothing.”

Ringo expected him to insist, but instead the lad said something entirely different.

“You didn’t hear us play, did you?”

Ringo's eyes widened and he turned to face George. “How ...”

“Paul and John only ever ask the girls up front about it. And these girls are biased – they’re already too much under the spell to say we're no good anyway. But I’ve got my sources. I know no-one can hear us when the rest of the customers won’t shut up. We don't have any amp, and John's mic is shit.”

Ringo hummed. “So he's _got_ a mic?”

“Must have nicked it from his little cousin or something. Ah, finally!” George exclaimed.

Ringo brought back his attention on the bar. A new bottle of beer had appeared in front of him.

“I didn’t order this,” he said, dumbfounded.

“Of course. _I_ did,” George smirked, leaning towards him to seize the bottle. “I said it was for you. They never agree to give me anything else than orange juice. Hypocritical bastards.”

“But ...” Ringo began, not really sure of what he wanted to say. Argue that George was too young to drink? Or just ask for a beer himself?

“You’ve had too much to drink already,” George warned with a playful smile. “Think about what you're gonna say or I might not walk you back.”

“’kay.”

George stared at him as if he’d grown a third head.

“What?”

“Well, I didn’t think you'd be okay with it,” George said, finally taking a swing from the bottle. “I thought you were an overprotective, caring Hufflepuff. Maybe I was wrong.”

Ringo shrugged and muttered something about being fair before something else crossed his mind.

“Hey, I’ve got questions.”

George gestured him to go on with his beer.

“John. Gryffindor or Slytherin? I can't decide.”

George gave him a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, that's a tough one. Been thinking about it for a while too. In the end I think it depends on what house you ...”

“Put Paul in,” Ringo completed.

“Exactly,” George said, looking quite impressed despite his casual tone. “They complete one another. Personally, I’d put Paul in Gryffindor. That leaves John in Slytherin.”

“Makes sense,” Ringo nodded.

“You’re a particularly interesting Hufflepuff, you know that?” George smirked, taking yet another swig. “Three minutes with them and you've already sensed it.”

Ringo shrugged. It was obvious. What more could he say about it? He stared longingly at George's bottle of beer.

“Are they ...” he began, trying to distract himself from the idea that just popped in his mind – _he could snatch George’s beer. He was so thirsty. Why not?! George should have mercy and let him have a gulp at least._

_They_ came back at that exact moment. Suddenly Paul was there, clinging onto Ringo’s leather jacket, nearly jolting him down in the process.

“Careful!” George shouted, grabbing Ringo’s over arm and only _barely_ managing to keep him on his chair. “He’s on his way to be hung over.”

“I don't care!” Paul twitted excitedly. “You’ll never guess what we’re gonna do!”

“Record something?” George tried, but Paul had a dismissive flick of the wrist before looking at Ringo, waiting for an answer, highbrows arched impossibly higher than usual.

_He's gonna get wrinkles at that rate_ , Ringo thought. He needed to utter some nonsense to make him spill it out as soon as possible. Good friends save wrinkles to the people they like. But his mind was so empty ...

“Mm, I don’t know. You're gonna head off to Hamburg?”

Paul's mouth hung open.

“How ...” he uttered before falling silent again.

George tugged on Ringo’s sleeve, making him realize only then that the lad hadn’t let go of him yet to keep him stable.

“Are we?” he almost shrieked, his voice losing its composure in a surprising way. “Are we really gonna play in Hamburg? Oh, sorry,” he added when Ringo swayed dangerously by his side.

“We ... We are ...” Paul said, slowly becoming his usual self again as George let out a cry of contentment. “But how did you know?”

“He’s got a point. Merlin’s beard, how did you guess so easily?” George asked.

Ringo turned his head away from Paul. George had his eyes fixed on him, hands hovering around his beer as if ready to takes notes.

“That was really easy,” Ringo smiled. “I’m going there too.”


	3. Packing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringo tries to pack his stuff. He might need a little help (from his friends, you KNOW).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this sooner, but uni is being uni ... Thank you so much for the kudos and comments, they make my day <3

Ringo weighed the hardcover book in his hand. He let out a sigh before taking in the sight of his room – or rather, the room he shared with one of his bandmates. It was a mess. He sighed again.

“I’ll never manage on my own,” he mumbled.

The thing was simple; it shouldn’t even have been an issue. Ringo was leaving for Hamburg the next day with the rest of his band, and since they were to be away from Liverpool for at least two months they had decided to resign the contract for the flat they rented. It was all settled; they could take some of their stuff to Hamburg where they’d share another place. And since that new one was admittedly smaller, they could take everything. All Ringo had to do was chose the stuff he wanted to take with him, and the ones he'd leave at his mother's.

Simple, then. But rather impossible when you had the intolerable habit of keeping old bills in your coat pockets for months “just in case,” when you never could bring yourself to abandon one of these little rocks you'd picked once on the road because they were particularly shiny on that bright summer day, and particularly, _particularly_ when you were one of these people with an lifelong passion for something. Namely _Harry Potter_. Everyone entering his room could see it before having the time to say “Quidditch”.

This explained why notebooks from various years of school littered the floor among solitary socks, faded cinema tickets and many more unidentified goodies. The bed was in a similar state; so were the only chair and the tiny desk no one ever used. The wardrobe looked like a toddler had decided he needed that colourful shirt folded under all the others and had helped himself without ceremony. Then there were open and almost empty boxes – because why fill boxes when you can scatter your belongings on the floor – and the trunk Ringo was supposed to take with him to Hamburg.

At this rate he wouldn’t go anywhere.

The only thing he felt graceful for was that his roommate had already packed his things and was out for the day. Not only Ringo didn’t dare to think about what the room would have looked like if twice the amount of clutter had been taken out of the drawers, but it also saved him from being mocked. Lou disliked sharing a room with him already. According to the man, Ringo’s snoring wasn’t anything compared to his dubious taste in decoration.

Ringo cocked an eyebrow at that thought and surveyed his Harry Potter themed side of the room. There weren’t _that many_ objects betraying his passion for the wizarding world, he decided. Merely a few.

If he was sure he wouldn’t succeed on his own, though, he'd better ask for help ... And he knew just the person fit for the job. Someone who wouldn’t be repulsed by the large banner above his bed that proudly announced _Gred, Forge and Roonil Wazlib_.

He took out his phone and quickly dialled a number. His correspondent picked up at the first ring.

“Hey George, I’m supposed to pack my things but I’m at a loss. Are you busy?”

As it happened, George wasn’t busy. According to his own words, he was 'drowning in boredom so deep that even Voldemort had more fun when he'd been stuck at the back of Quirrell's head'. He only asked for his address and promised to come over right away.

And sure, he was quick. Ringo ushered him in less than a quarter of hour later.

“My father was leaving, I bribed him to drop me on his way,” he quickly explained, kicking off his shoes. “Where’s your room?”

Ringo led him through the mostly empty flat. George paused for a split second when he saw the bare living room, devoid of furniture except for a couch, six massive chairs and an even more massive Ikea table.

“Only the stuff that doesn’t belong to us stays here ... And the others have already cleared out. My room’s this one,” Ringo commented.

He put his hand on the knob but didn’t open it yet. George deserved to be warned.

“Uh ... You'll excuse the mess, will you? Packin’.”

“Sure. That's what you called me for, right?” George smiled.

But the younger's eyes widened nonetheless when Ringo finally opened the door.

“Wow. Hadn’t realized you lived in the room of requirement,” he said with a chuckle.

“It’s not that bad,” Ringo protested – rather feebly, he had to admit.

“Mate. You're standing in the only clear spot of the whole room. I can’t even _come in._ ”

Ringo lowered his eyes. _Right._ His feet were squeezed together in front of the desk. On his right was a more-than-full bin, on his left a pile of CDs. He had automatically _jumped_ there. Perhaps the situation was even worse than he’d thought.

“I hate to pack,” he apologized.

“Well, I _like_ to pack. And I’ve been to John's place once, so there's nothing that can scare me now.”

As he said that, George scooped up a pile of books and stepped inside. “See? I'm in for it,” he grinned. “Now, are you taking books with you?”

“I want to, but I can't take them all and I can’t decide. I won’t have time to read much anyway ...” Ringo trailed off, staring at the colourful pile in George’s arms.

“Stop worrying. You're not throwing them out. Just putting them in boxes, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ringo shrugged. George was supposed to be younger than him, but at that moment he felt as if it were the opposite. He hated packing, and most of all he hated to leave things behind him. It just reminded him of the times he didn’t have time to pack before leaving home – _and then he didn’t have anything that he wanted with him, and even if his mother eventually brought him some on the stuff he’d wrote on a list, she couldn’t understand and he never got them on time anyway, because his cravings for said stuffed plushie or toy or book shifted with his moods._

Ringo shrugged when he realized he'd drifted away. George threw him a curious look but didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked, “It’s easy, you'll see. Favourite series?”

“Do you really need to ask?” Ringo smiled, really snapping out of it this time.

“I was hoping you'd say that. I've got the seven of them in my arms and they are bloody heavy, so what’s your favourite?”

“Uh ...” Ringo hesitated.

“It’s heavy, I might drop them,” George deadpanned.

“You wouldn’t dare. Peeves would come to haunt you in your dreams of you did.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Maybe, but _I_ would ... I'll take the seventh.”

“Great. I'm more of an _Order of the Phoenix_ myself, but _Deathly Hallows_ it is. Are these your boxes for the stuff you don’t take?”

They made a quick job of finding all the other books discarded across the room.

“Ringo, why do you keep three different copies of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_?” George asked at some point.

“Well ...” Ringo blushed and fell silent.

Sure, that was a bit weird. George's opinion mattered and he didn’t know what to say to keep the good opinion the lad had of him – providing it had been good in the first place.

“Just joking,” George said, taking him by surprise. “I’ve got four back at home.”

Ringo let out a relieved sigh. “Never do that to me again. I thought you were judging me.”

“I’d never judge you,” George smiled, putting the third copy of Harry's first year adventures in the largest cardboard box. “I judge Paul, or John. But us? No, we're really sensible persons.”

“That’s not what people tell me.”

“Why? Four copies is a _minimum_ , I don’t know how you manage with three. One to travel with, one that's house-themed, one that's too heavy to carry around, and one that's in Latin because it's fancy to have it.”

“Very convincing.”

“I know,” George said, straightening his back and looking around the room. “Now, clothes. Choose four pairs of trousers and seven t-shirts, thanks.”

When they had collected all the tumbled garments across the room, the place already looked much tidier.

They packed the rest of Ringo’s clothes, George giving simple instructions and Ringo following them. Although he hadn’t expected it, he soon found himself enjoying the activity. Packing with George was much more effective than doing it on his own – that was sure – but it also was much more entertaining. Mainly because George couldn’t help but comment almost everything that fell in his hands, from Ringo's collection of Funko Pops – _how could you fall for that trend, Richard? That's a waste of money!_ – to his socks – _there's not a single matching pair. Explain yourself. Now._

“What I like the most is your banner, though,” George said, pointing at the large brown piece of fabric hung above the bed.

“Oh, I love it too. Lou – that's my roommate –, he hates it. Says it gives him the creeps.”

“I mean, I can see why. I'd give a leg to see Paul’s face if he suddenly saw that one.”

“Actually,” Ringo drawled, thinking as he spoke, “Maybe you could keep it for me until I get back? You could hang it in your own room if you want.”

“Really?!” George said, voice more like a squeal than anything else. “You’d do that?”

Ringo climbed on his bed and removed the pins from the wall.

“You’ll have to give it back,” he pointed out as he handed it to George.

“All done,” Ringo announced proudly an hour later after checking under the wardrobe with a ruler, only dragging dust and a plastic cap from under it.

George closed the boxes with adhesive tape and let himself fall on the bare bed.

“Where are you leaving these?”

“At my mother's. It's a ten-minutes car ride. I could give you a lift,” Ringo offered.

George only accepted after making sure they'd drop the boxes first.

“So, your bandmates? Are they any good?” he asked when they were sat in Ringo’s car.

“We got offered gigs in Hamburg,” Ringo smiled. “Should mean something.”

“Oh, but _that_ doesn’t have to. After all, we're leaving for Hamburg too and I know we're crap,” George retorted with a grin.

When Ringo instantly asked him not to say such things, George muttered something obscure about Hufflepuffs. “The rhythm section could do better to say the least,” he then commented, “and you can't know if I’m wrong or not. You haven’t even heard us play!”

“It's ... not as if I didn’t _try_ ,” Ringo defended himself. “That place was too damn crowded. I’d have loved to hear you all play.”

Ringo mostly kept his eyes on the road as he drove, but snatched occasional glances at his passenger – and he saw George’s grin widen.

“Well, do you have other things to do this afternoon?” the younger lad asked him.

Ringo shook his head.

“In that case, we could hang out at my place. I don't have the whole band at my disposal, but you could at least hear _me_ play.”

“I'd love that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I saw [this Gred and Forge and Roonil Wazlib design](https://www.redbubble.com/fr/i/coussin/gred-and-forge-et-roonil-wazlib-noir-par-lexicolor/59367093.5X2YF) on Redbubble and I've been trying to refrain from buying a pillowcase for weeks (the colour is horrendous and it's perfect). I thought I might share that with you!


	4. RP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Ringo enjoy a little break from the shows in Hamburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to share [this pic](https://ibb.co/NtH7Wyh) with you all. If it doesn't give off HUGE Hogwarts vibes I don't know what will. They make me think of the Marauders in it!

“Don’t mistake me,” George said. “I like Hamburg.”

“I know.”

“Hamburg's good for us. You've seen it yourself, right? When we got here we sounded like utterly crap, and now we sound ...”

“You sound good now. But I don’t agree otherwise,” Ringo intervened. “When you arrived, you sounded like ... Lovely crap, rather.”

“We sound good now because you play with us most nights.”

Ringo shook his head but said nothing.

“What I mean is ... Hamburg is tiring. There's no time for anything else,” George went on. “There’s always another gig, and then we _need_ to go to another club, and then we crash into bed, and then it's time to play again. Where are we?”

Ringo hummed approvingly. He understood what George meant. He’d arrived at Hamburg two months and a half before George and the others. Since they’d come here, he did his own job with Rory. More often than not, he was The Silver Beatles' spare drummer as well. He didn’t have much time for himself either. Still, he tried to comfort George.

“We’re here now. I could go if you want - that'd leave you all alone for at least ...” he checked his phone and winced, “an hour.”

“Don't, please. I don't want to stay in this crappy room on my own,” George quickly retorted, his tone almost pleading.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. Ringo let his eyes wander around. _This_ was certainly a crappy room, with humidity stains on the walls and almost no light coming from the tiny window. He'd used to complain about the one he had to share, but no word had been allowed to leave his mouth since George and the others had shown him theirs. At least Lou and him weren’t _five_ locked in there.

“I don't understand. Don't you think this place has Slytherin common room vibes? We could be under a lake and we wouldn’t even know” he joked.

George opened his eyes and surveyed the room with a critical eye.

“Too dirty,” he said, pointing a foot in direction of the floor where dust dust bunnies kept company to dirt and _what is even that, a dead beetle?!_

“My bad. Slytherin common house, _and_ the house elves are on strike,” Ringo corrected himself.

“Mmh. That'd explain why John never complains about the place. Another proof he's a Slytherin.”

Ringo chuckled. He let his head rest against the wall too. They were both sat on George's bed. It was really rare, this. These days, they either saw one another when Ringo replaced Pete – he'd finally learned his name – or didn’t see one another at all, mostly because they didn’t live on the same schedule.

But today Ringo had woken up early (only noon) and had decided to swing by the Kaiserkeller in case Paul and George were awake. Paul was on his way out, but he'd informed him that “these idiots from the Bambi Kino had sound problems with their movies last night. The sound was so loud it woke us up. George's still in our room, I think he's sulking. Babysit him, yeah? Thanks mate!” With that, Paul had hurried outside. Who knew what John and him were up to this time.

If you asked Ringo, George was far less in need of babysitting than other people – like John, for example. George, for one, didn’t get involved in every single fight he saw – or provoked.

“I miss that,” George said, making Ringo come back to the present.

“You miss being in the Slytherin common house?” Ringo half joked. He really had no idea what George was talking about but was surprised, when he briefly opened his eyes, to see George nod. His friend still had his own eyes closed, eyelids fluttering a bit. Dark bags under them.

“Well ... We could ...” Ringo began before deciding against it.

If he said it, that _we could pretend we’re there if you'd like_ , it would give reality to the fact that they were _not_ there. And that would have been counterproductive.

“What?” George asked.

“Nothing. But were you there at dinner last night? I missed it.”

George opened his eyes to give him a questioning look and Ringo realized that, one, he'd been staring at him, and two, he hadn’t been that clear. “McGonagall,” he added. “John told me she made a speech.”

George's eyes widened but it only took him a few seconds to answer. “Oh, don't talk to me about it. She's been going on for hours. Just because James Potter has been dragging first years in the forbidden forest again doesn’t mean our dear headmistress has to lecture the whole school. Where were you, then?” he said, his bored tone contradicted by his huge smile.

_Timeline is settled_ , Ringo noted.

“In detention with Filch. Been rolling his wheelchair everywhere around the castle and dusting all the paintings he told me to.”

“Lovely. I'd have joined you, but I wouldn’t skip a meal for a Quidditch cup. How did you even survive that?” George drawled as he turned his head away from Ringo again and closed his eyes.

“I’m a Hufflepuff,” Ringo reminded him. “I have access to the kitchens whenever I want.”

“Oh, right. If I’d known that in first year, I’d have chosen Hufflepuff over Ravenclaw, for sure. You can't eat books, that's their only downside.”

“Well, depends. The other day I’m sure I saw you with a parchment that had teeth marks in it.”

“That was Paul's fault! Tried to copy my answers, the scrounger. Had to make something, hadn’t I?”

Everything was taking shape so easily, and Ringo was quickly becoming engrossed by the second Life they were making up. _It's almost as if we really were there_ , he thought.

“Wait,” George said. “What year do we say you're in?”

“Mm, sixth year okay for you?” Ringo asked. You can be in Paul's year, and I'll be in seventh year with John. More things to tell one another if we don’t attend to the same classes.”

“Perfect. At least O. W. L.s are behind me. But remind me again, did you keep divination for your N. E. W. T.?” he added with a different voice. “Because you'll never guess what Trelawney said would happen to me this week ...”

“Really? Oh, you've gotta tell me,” Ringo squealed with fake enthusiasm. “I didn’t keep divination. I like Firenze alright but she was insufferable. Kept saying it wasn’t right that I was there, that I should have died three times when I was a kid.”

“Three times, really? Interesting take,” George commented. “Anyway, she told me in great secrecy, which means in front of the whole class, that a blue-eyed student is going to betray me this week. I wonder if it’s you.”

“No way. Maybe she mentioned the wrong colour, that's all. John's much more fit for the job.”

“Right. But still. Just wanted to tell you you’re not allowed around my stash of valuable and forbidden books for a few days.”

“George, you _never_ let me touch any.”

“Considering what happened last year, I had my reasons.”

“It was _nothing!_ ” Ringo protested, faking shock but very eager to learn what he might have done to George's precious books.

And he soon learned it, among other things that had them giggling. They kept going on until George's phone rang. Very fittingly, his ringtone was _Do The Hippogriff_ by The Weird Sisters, which didn’t prevent him from grimacing when he saw who it was.

“Paul,” he said. “Probably wants me to help him with his love potions business _again_.”

Ringo waited silently as his friend then answered the phone.

“Wait, I'm gonna ask him. Yeah, he's still here,” George said, voice a bit tense or just sounding tired, Ringo couldn’t tell. “Hey, Paul wants to know if you could fill in tonight again? Before your own gig?”

Ringo nodded and George gave him a tiny smile as he relayed the information.

“When does it begin?” Ringo asked when George hung up.

“In twenty minutes. Paul insists we come right now.”

“Too bad. I was having fun,” Ringo said in earnest.

“Me too. Say ...”

“Yes?” Ringo encouraged him.

“Since you're already seventeen and old McGo gave you permission to apparate within Hogwarts, will you save me the trouble of fetching me broom?”

“Oh yeah. Side-along apparition,” Ringo smiled. “That’ll be my first. Hold my arm, Harry.”

George scoffed at Ringo's poor imitation of Dumbledore but linked their arms nonetheless.

“There,” Ringo announced a few seconds later, helping George up. “Back in ol' Hamburg again. Eyebrows still there?”

They were both smiling as they left the room.


	5. A Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it's a surprise then Author won't make a chapter summary :)

They were due onstage in ten minutes and George still was nowhere in sight. Ringo had checked in the lad’s room, and Paul had gotten Stuart to wander around the Kaiserkeller itself, asking customers in his rough German if they'd seen a lanky lad.

“They have seen him,” Stuart said when he came back in the back room. “Maybe we shouldn’t wait for him.”

John checked his phone, eyes fluttering because of the too bright screen. “He’s right, we should ...”

“Guys!!!!”

The loud cry made Ringo jump, which in turn made John snicker.

George rushed in, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper like it was a golden trophy.

“Where were you–” Paul began, but George didn’t even listen to him.

“What are we doing next Sunday?” he asked John.

“Playing.”

“Can you cancel it?” George immediately asked.

John scoffed. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Because Ringo and I won't be available that day,” George retorted.

“I don't ...” Ringo tried to intervene, not understanding anything that was going on, but he was cut just like Paul had.

“Ringo can do whatever he likes, he isn’t part of the band,” John stated rather coldly. “You, on the other hand ...”

“I won't be here,” George repeated.

“We’re due onstage in less than two minutes,” Stuart warned them.

No one paid him attention.

Well, Ringo and Paul did, nodding, but John and George were now staring at one another in what seemed like a contest.

“Come on,” John urged George all of a sudden.

“God no,” George said, not looking away.

“God yes.”

“What on _earth_ are you on about?” Stuart chimed in, but Paul made him stop with a move of the arm.

“So this is it,” Paul said to John. “You’re gonna give the child what he wants just to have your little revenge.”

“I’m not a child,” George immediately retorted while John said, “Shut up, Macca. I need to hear it.”

They stood like statues for a few more agonizing seconds until, finally, George sighed.

“I just have to say it?”

“That's right.”

“And you'll cancel Sunday’s gig?”

“Pinky promise.”

“Alright ... _The Inheritance_ is better than _Harry Potter_ ,” George exhaled.

“What?!” Ringo gasped with outrage.

John, on the other hand, looked George up and down defiantly. “I did a good thing when I let you in the band, kiddo. One day we'll make you an educated young man.”

“Stop, Lennon. I've been stained, I need to wash my mouth.”

“You’ll do that later,” Stuart said. “We should already be playing.”

This time the two guitarists seemed to hear him. They all quickly gathered their instruments and prepared to exit the room.

“Wait,” Ringo called at the last moment, catching George by the sleeve. “What did you bargain Harry's pride for?”

George grinned like a madman.

“Oh, something definitely worth it. There's a convention on Sunday.”

“In Hamburg?” Ringo almost choked.

“And we’re going to dress as the wizards we really are,” George nodded.

Ringo let out an unidentified noise as they climbed onstage. He settled behind his drums, trying to keep the smile creeping on his face under control. Meanwhile, John and Paul introduced the band, using a mix of German nonsense and English like they had become used to.

“Und am Sonntag, we won't be here to entertain you, because it seems that Christopher Paolini is the best writer after all!” John exclaimed triumphantly.

Ringo had been losing focus, but that certainly caught back his attention.

He shook his head. _No way, not ever._ His eyes crossed George's and his friend mouthed, “I know.”

“Ringo!” Paul hissed.

_Oh, right._

As he began to drum the rhythm to _I Saw Her Standing There,_ he saw John smiling defiantly at George.

_One day_ , Ringo decided, _one day George and himself would lock John somewhere – in a cupboard, or in that cranky room of theirs, or maybe even on a rooftop, and they wouldn’t let him out until they had properly explained to him why Harry Potter was so important._ That thought was the only thing that allowed him to keep drumming, seemingly unbothered except for the occasional smiles or frowns that animated his face depending on what Silver Beatle his eyes fell upon.

When Paul and John launched themselves in a duet that left George with only a few chords to play occasionally, the guitarist took a few steps back so he was closer to Ringo

“We have to buy some clothes,” he shouted over the music.

Ringo nodded. “Tomorrow?” he asked back.

They didn’t have much choice. They'd have to wake up earlier than two o’clock in the afternoon if they wanted to have a chance to be successful.

“Sure!”

* * *

“So. Who do you want to be?”

Instead of answering right away, Ringo took another bite of the German pastry he’d bought. There was way too much flour in it, so that bite granted him at least ten additional seconds before he was forced to swallow the thing. George, sat next to him on a bench, didn’t seem to sense his sudden uneasiness. He seemed utterly engrossed by his own breakfast – a bag of chips. Ringo looked back at his own food – still half of it to go – and felt his stomach protest. He put it aside and took in the sight of the park they were in. _That_ was a nice place. It wasn’t very big, but at least there were a bunch of trees and grass instead of stone and concrete. There even were some flowers. Ringo briefly wondered what they were called.

“Ritchiiiie!” someone called his attention back, fingers tugging at his left sleeve.

_George._

“Sorry,” Ringo immediately said, turning his head to face his friend. “I want to be … well, I’m not sure. If I am to tell you, I’ve got to explain something first …”

“Go on then,” George simply said before shoving an impressive number of chips in his mouth all at once.

Ringo squirmed on the bench. “It’s not easy …”

“You’re not a Voldemort stan, are you?” George asked.

“What?! No!” Ringo said, outraged by the idea.

“And you’ve never felt any kind of spiritual connection to Umbridge, right?” George asked, smirking. Ringo shook his head and he added, “Then I think I can hear anything. You can trust me, you know.”

_Right. I can trust him_. Ringo knew he could. He’d gotten so close to George in such a short time, and he knew the lad was his best friend, easily supplanting all the friends he’d had before. But to hear him say it out loud was different; it somehow re-established that their friendship wasn’t one-sided, and that was all that Ringo needed to hear at that moment.

He looked up from his lap and stared into George’s brown eyes.

“I’ve always felt some kind of connection to one of the characters, but it’s not Umbridge… You know I spent a lot of time at the hospital when I was a kid,” he began, deciding to remain as vague as possible.

George nodded, eyes still fixed on him. His chewing slowed.

“I had a few operations.”

Silence.

“What I mean is, I’ve got scars on my stomach, and I … I hated them, at first. Until I realized it wasn’t much different from werewolf bites. Except mine are bigger, I guess, and not on my arms. But before that I already liked Remus, so it doesn’t …”

George looked down and carefully fished a chip from his bag. He handed it to Ringo with a large smile. “You’ll make a great Remus Lupin.”

Ringo sighed in relief. He put the chip in his mouth and almost sighed again, because at last it was some food that actually tasted like it.

“You’re so much like him,” George went on, taking another chip for himself. “Kind and supportive from the back of the room. He could’ve been a Hufflepuff, you know – I think the only reason he was sent to Gryffindor was because the others needed him.”

Ringo nodded. George’s theory was something he needed to think about a bit more.

“Who are you going to be?” he asked.

“I hadn’t quite made up my mind yet,” George replied quietly. “But if you’re Remus, I’ve got no choice. I’m going to be your best friend.”

Ringo looked up from the pastry he was now picking at. George’s smug smile was contagious, and he found himself returning it.

“You mean you’re gonna be Pettigrew? Good choice, mate.”

He expected George to elbow him, but instead the lad shoved the chips bag in his hands. “Hold this,” George ordered him before wiping his greasy fingers on his jeans. Then he ruffled his carefully styled hair and combed it so that it fell in front of his eyes.

“What do you think, Remus dear?” he asked, somehow managing to take a voice both posh and rebellious, nailing the impersonation at the first time. “I’m Sirius Black!”

* * *

Maybe Ringo should have thought about it twice before agreeing to go to a thrift store with George.

“Here! Take that one too!”

A hand pulled the curtain away and nearly shoved a woollen sweater in his face. Ringo seized it just in time. He opened his mouth to say something, but heard George walk away before he could utter a word. He’d probably gone in search of ripped pants now. He sighed and looked at the ever-growing pile of clothes on the bench next to him. They took almost all the space in the little fitting room. A knock on the wooden panel informed him that George had already returned.

“Have you put it on yet?” his friend asked with his over-enthusiastic voice.

So far, all the clothes he’d brought to the fitting room were for Ringo.

“George …” Ringo began, not really knowing how to say it. He looked at himself in the mirror once more and shook his head, “I look stupid.”

“I’m coming in,” George answered.

“There’s no r–” Ringo tried to warn him, but to no avail. George had already squeezed himself in the cramped space. Surprisingly, they and the thousands of garments all fit in the room. They were all really close. Ringo’s back touched the right wall of the cubicle.

“Oh,” George said as he took in the sight of Ringo clad in his new clothes.

“I know. I look stupid,” Ringo said with a shrug.

He glanced once more at his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing the most worn-out corduroy pants that George had managed to find. They were of a dark brown – or had been at first, because now the colour had faded and the knees were almost white. He was also wearing a moth-eaten woollen sweater. Ringo was sure it was hand-knitted. Some stitches were less close-woven than the rest.

And, sure, that wasn’t a problem. He’d probably be unable to knit, even if someone were to teach him.

But all this different from what he usually wore.

Usually, Ringo was all for wearing whatever shirt that was clean and not too ruffled. He always wore a leather jacket on top of that. And jeans. Ripped jeans, worn-out-jeans. Any jeans. But certainly not corduroy.

“You look so much like Remus,” George let out.

Ringo turned his head sharply to look at him. “What?”

“It’s … You could play his part if they were to make movies about the Marauders, you know,” George said with an _impressed_ voice. “Plus, you look perfectly unhappy right now. All you’d have to do is act naturally.”

Ringo couldn’t help but chuckle at that, his spirits lifting up instantly. “You really think so?”

“Of course. Come on man, only a few people could pull off that look as well as you. I chose the worst-looking items of the shop and you still look good. Give yourself some credit!”

Ringo didn’t say anything. Maybe George was right. The corduroy trousers looked as if they were going to turn into dust at any moment, but they were his size and hugged his legs perfectly. And that sweater – well, Ringo would never wear that anywhere near his other friends, but he had to admit it was comfy, even with the few holes in it.

“Come on now!” George urged him. “Put your clothes back on, we need to find my Sirius outfit!”

Seizing the pile of trousers and sweaters Ringo wouldn’t buy, George left again. When Ringo emerged from the back of the shop two minutes later, his friend was already skimming through a rack of clothes.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Ringo asked, placing himself next to George.

“Something serious.”

Ringo scoffed. “Out of all people, I never expected _you_ to make shitty jokes.”

“Thank you. I’m honoured. Please think less highly of me in the future. Now, we’re looking for something Sirius’s parents would disapprove. Something Muggles would wear … no, not this,” George added, swiftly pushing Ringo’s hand so he could put a very glittery and pink satin nightdress back on the rack.

“Suit yourself,” Ringo chuckled.

They went through a few coat-hangers in silence. The shop was almost empty. The cashier had disappeared in the back-shop and the only person with them was a old lady in a corner, busy examining a clear bag as if it weren’t see-through.

“To be honest, I always thought Sirius would dress like we do. Leather jacket, maybe even trousers like you guys wear. He had a motorbike, after all,” Ringo said as he took out another nightdress before putting it back under George’s glare. It apparently wasn’t the thing to say since Ringo got told to shut up and stop spoiling everything. He was about to answer when he saw it.

“Stop searching and come over,” he told George who had wandered a few racks away.

“Is it another nightdress?” George asked, brows scrunching. “Because if it is, Ritchie, in the name of Merlin … wow.”

Ringo grinned. He’d never thought they’d find something like that among second-hand clothes, but here it was. A Gryffindor bomber jacket, red and white, with the yellow Gryffindor crest.

“Ritchie, you’re the best,” George said. “The Blacks would be outraged by this.”

He was quick to try it on. Even if it was a little too big, it still fit him.

“I’ll just … roll the sleeves,” George said with a begging tone, like a kid who had to convince his parents that _yes, that thing is exactly what I want to buy and I know it’s not my size._

They then found a simple button-up shirt. George tried several pairs of trousers but they were either too short or too large, so in the end he decided he’d just wear one of his own – “I’ve got a ripped pair of jeans that even my own mother finds unsufferable to see”.

“Good thing we found everything we needed in one single shop,” George commented once they were out in the cold.

“Why? It only took us an hour,” Ringo said, checking his phone.

“I’m hungry again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are [Ringo's new clothes](https://ibb.co/VCYL7Cz) and [George's jacket](https://ibb.co/9yZxSCk). You don't have to check these out or anything but they are here if you want. I spent so much time trying to find exactly what I wanted that it's ridiculous.
> 
> I hope you're having a good day/night <3


	6. In Which the Surprise Takes Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the chapter title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I apologize for all the inaccuracies of this chapter. I've only been to a convention once and it was in France, so I've had trouble finding the right words to say what I wanted (but when do I not struggle?).
> 
> Anyway, I forgot to say it before but the idea of Ringo and George dressing as Remus and Sirius and going to a convention isn't even mine, it's Rufusrant's (thank you!!!).
> 
> I think that's all I wanted to say. I hope you'll like this chapter!

“That’s … a lot of people”, Ringo said with an incredulous laugh.

Sunday way finally there. George and he had woken up early – at ten – and had left for the convention as fast as they could. Ringo had barely slept the night before. Between his late-night gig with his own band and the excitation of attending the Hamburg big event of the year, the Fantasy Convention – taking place for the seventh year in a row on top of that – he’d tossed and turned most of the night. It only made the shadows under his eyes darker. _That,_ at least, was for the best. He wasn’t solely Remus Lupin, he was Remus Lupin recovering from yet another full moon.

Next to him, George was bouncing on his feet, Gryffindor jacket on and wide smile on his face.

“I see five Gryffindors, one Hufflepuffs, two Ravenclaws and … yes, three Slytherins,” George announced.

Ringo followed his gaze. True enough, Hogwarts uniforms could be spotted regularly among the rest of the crowd. He didn’t try to count them himself – after all, he trusted George to be as exact as possible. He turned his eyes away from a guy dressed up as Geralt of Rivia and looked down at his brown trousers.

“Do you think people will get the reference? Maybe we’re underdressed.”

“Stop worrying,” George gently scolded him and he unfolded the program they’d been given at the main entrance.

“Don’t you think we look … too casual?”

To Ringo’s surprise, George laughed.

“Ritchie. I love you but you’re only saying that because you’re disappointed with Paul’s reaction to your outfit.”

Ringo winced. His hands came up to his neck, fiddling with the tartan scarf Paul had lent him – no, forced him to wear. He had made that scarf appear out of nowhere. It wasn’t a piece of clothing either of them could remember ever seeing on Paul. Yet, the lad had been over-enthusiastic when he’d seen Ringo’s outfit, claiming that he wanted the same sweater, although preferably without holes in it. “Those trousers look so much more comfortable than mine,” he said with a little sigh of regret, looking between his leather trousers and Ringo’s corduroy ones. “If I’d known, I’d have come with you.” George’s smile at that had seemed a bit fixed, but fortunately John, who was still in bed, had claimed Paul’s attention just on time. “And who would you dress up as, Macca? That toad in pink?” With a “Lennon, that’ll be the day when you die!” Paul had utterly forgotten George and Ringo were here, and they had seized the opportunity to dash off.

“I hate the fact that you’re right,” Ringo said, coming back to the present moment.

“I promise it’ll be just fine,” George said, smiling at him. “Oh, look!”

He tugged Ringo’s arm and led him to the nearest booth. Ringo’s gaze wandered over what seemed to him like hundreds of pins and badges. Before he could even focus his gaze on some of them – how was he even supposed to choose where to look at? There simply were too many things everywhere, shiny and beautiful, beckoning his attention – George snatched one up, paid for it and turned towards him.

“Look at me,” he asked before reaching for Ringo’s sweater and pinning something onto it. “There. Now no confusion is possible.”

Ringo looked down to were George’s hands had fluttered. A Prefect badge now shined onto his chest.

Ringo’s smile was so big that he found that the corners of his mouth hurt. “Is it bad if I feel like Percy?” he asked when he was able to speak again.

“It’s okay,” George answered. “If you find that you’re spending too much time polishing it, we can always ask John to take it from you.”

“Please no, he’d put a jinx on it,” Ringo said, but he already like the badge so much that he found it difficult to look away from it.

Eventually, though, George saw something some booth away and dragged Ringo towards it.

The hour went by in the same fashion. Every time George saw something that caught his eyes, he’d seize Ringo’s sleeve. Instead of being tired of it, Ringo was grateful George did. He really liked the Convention, but the combination of people, loud noise and shiny things and costumes everywhere made it difficult for him to focus. If he’d been on his own, he probably would have stayed in the same corner all day, not daring to wander any further. As George didn’t seem bothered at all, though, they were able to explore the place just fine.

Ringo was admiring an impressive stack of beautiful wands when George waved a hand in front of his eyes.

“Are you still here?” he asked. “I’ve said your name twice.”

Ringo frowned. “Sorry. You’d better take me away from this stand; or else I might very well buy one of these.”

George literally cooed. “Which one?” he asked eagerly.

Ringo pointed his finger towards a long open box displaying a beautiful wand. _Newt Scamander_ was written on a little paper next to it.

George shook his head. “Now, Remus my friend, Hufflepuff would be out of character for you today. Though I admit this one’s beautiful.”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“Oh, right,” George said. “There’s a seminar about _Harry Potter_ that’s beginning in fifteen minutes. Do you want to go there?”

“I thought you didn’t have to ask.”

Ringo glanced one last time at the wand he was destined to own in another reality before following George who already was diving into the crowd.

“What’s it about exactly?” he asked when they’d reached a less crowded area.

“The title is _Why everyone wishes they could go to Hogwarts_ ,” George answered. “I know it’s gonna be fun, but the title is shit. They’re saying that as if …”

“As if Hogwarts weren’t real,” Ringo completed for him. “Whereas we _know_ it is.”

They’d almost reached the seminars area, where people had already started to gather and chatted idly, sitting on white plastic chairs, when a girl stopped them. She was wearing black and green robes and her hair was tied in a strict bun.

Her hands shot up to her mouth as she said something in German.

She looked so ecstatic that it took Ringo a few seconds of staring before he told her that they hadn’t understood a thing. But the girl didn’t seem disturbed by that; she merely switched to English.

“Oh my God,” she squealed. “You two are _adorable_!”

They stared at her again.

“Oh, stop pretending you’re not the perfect embodiment of my two favourite characters. You two are the best Sirius and Remus I’ve seen so far, and it’s my third day here!” the girl went on enthusiastically, not even stuttering a bit.

“Thanks,” George smiled. “You’re a really good McGonagall too.”

The girl pulled a stern face to cast him a knowing look. “Thank you, Mr Black, but now you’d better head off to your dormitory.” She adopted a tone that could have fooled them but began to giggle halfway though.

“Oh, you’re really adorable,” she repeated, her eyes going from George to Ringo and from Ringo to George. “You’re together, right?”

Ringo opened his mouth to answer, but George beat him to it by throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer. “Yeah.”

“Oh my, my, my,” said the girl. “Wait until I tell my friends! But you’re heading to the seminar, right? I don’t want you to be late to it because of me; it’s really good, you’ll see. They did the same one in German yesterday. Bye!”

She waved at them before heading away. George waited until she was out of sight before letting go of Ringo’s shoulders.

“Sorry. Did you mind?” George asked.

“Of course not. But why did you lie?” Ringo asked, more curious than anything else.

“Have you seen her smile? It was so big. It’s not every day you get to make McGonagall so happy,” George explained with disarming logic.

“True. That’s very Hufflepuff of you, though,” Ringo smiled.

“I’m already a Ravenclaw dressed as a Gryffindor, don’t add to the complexity of the whole thing,” George joked. “But come on.”

Ringo allowed himself to be taken away. They learned everything about why everyone wanted to go to Hogwarts, and the listen proved itself much more interesting than it let on. Instead of listing reasons, the speaker analysed them with philosophical concepts. They left their chairs wishing they could listen to more, but unfortunately it was the only seminar that wasn’t in German that day. After that, they set off in search of something to eat. Soon they sat on the floor in a corner and began unwrapping their lunch.

“Do you really think Paul is gonna try some?” Ringo asked as he took out of his bag a box of Bertie Botts every flavour beans.

“Honestly? Not willingly,” George said before biting into his sandwich. “But I guess we could make him believe these are plain jelly beans, or … or German Smarties! Yes, I think he’d believe that.”

“What was it that you bought when I was waiting for our drinks?” Ringo asked curiously.

George’s face lit up. “I nearly forgot! Look,” he said.

He stuck his sandwich between his knees before reaching into his own bag. “I got this for John’s birthday. I can’t wait to give them to him,” he said before showing Ringo four bookmarks representing the four books of _The Inheritance_.

“He’ll love them,” Ringo assured him.

“He’d better! After what he made me say,” George said. He packed the bookmarks again and took another bite of his sandwich.

“Has Paul read _The Inheritance_?” Ringo asked when the thought occurred to him.

“No,” George said, shaking his head. “That’s the only subject of disagreement between them.”

They finished their lunch quickly before going back among the crowd. There were just so many things they wanted to see.


	7. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after the convention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mainly a filler and I'm not all pleased with how I wrote it, but I don't know how to improve it either. The two last ones will be better though, I promise!  
> Oh and this story has been so Gen until now that I think I should say it just in case. There are a few mentions of sex in this one but nothing happens.

“Ringo!!”

Ringo jumped at the sudden call of his name. He sat up and looked down from the bunk bed to see Lou who was standing rather comically in front of him, hands on the hips.

“How can I help you, love?” he chuckled.

But his bandmate didn’t seem in the mood to laugh.

“Kind of you to ask,” he growled. “I was with a bird last night, and–“

“Yes, I was there. I bloody well know that,” Ringo chuckled again, interrupting him.

“You heard us, then?!” Lou asked, brows frowning even more.

“Course not. I put on headphones and blasted Queen. And Guns N’ Roses. Only the best, and a bit of ...”

But Lou couldn’t care less. “Well, you should have. You'd left your blasted Gryffindor jacket on _my_ bed, and she thought it was mine, and she spent the whole evening telling me about how great it was that a guy like me liked Quidditch and whatever ... She was so excited about it that I didn’t even get a blowjob ... What?” he added when Ringo mumbled something.

“Just saying I can't believe this happened right here and I didn’t even hear a word of it.”

Lou huffed. “I’m telling you it's all your fault and that's all you've got to say!”

“Uh ... Thoughts and prayers to your frustrated self?” Ringo tried.

Lou merely shook his head. _Nope. That wasn’t the thing to say apparently._

“Just tell me what you want me to do,” Ringo said before adding hurriedly. “Apart from a repay blowjob, that is.”

That, at last, brought a half-smile on his bandmate's face. “I’m not that desperate yet. She's coming again tonight after the show and I'll Just ask you to take that thing“–he interrupted himself to throw the jacket on Ringo”–as far from me as you can. Actually, if you could stay away yourself I might even forgive you.”

Ringo hopped from the bed. The jacket landed on the floor and he quickly picked it up.

“I’m not saying you have to do it _now_ ,” Lou said, who had clearly become his usual self again.

Ringo smiled and pat his shoulder. “I know. But this isn’t even mine, it's a friend’s. So I’m off.”

Lou observed him silently as Ringo gathered his things – namely, a pair of jeans to cover his bare legs and his phone.

“I swear mate, if you get laid before me I'll never forgive you!” he finally shouted as Ringo was leaving the room.

“You should have specified that before sending me there!” Ringo shouted back. He held back his laugh until he was out in the street.

_No way I’ll ever tell him I’m going to see George. Having him think I got another date thanks to him is much funnier._

He set off with that entertaining thought in mind and soon found himself in front of the Bambi Kino.

He ignored the people queuing to see movies in a language he didn’t understand and took the back stairs as if he were actually allowed there.

“Come in,” a grim voice said when he knocked on the door.

In the few months Ringo had known its owner, he had also learned how to recognize that voice instantly. _John._

“Hey Lennon, do you know where ...” He frowned and stop, taking the time to inhale deeply. “Why does it smell like something burned in here?”

That's when he realized something was wrong. Not only was John alone in the room, but the mess that used to hide the floor from view had disappeared. No socks dropped everywhere, no lonesome boots, no bags, no guitars. Just John, sat on one of the beds with a backpack next to him and a phone in his hands.

John shrugged. He looked deeply annoyed, but not like he was taking the piss. This time there was something truly serious about him that kept Ringo from joking.

“You okay?” Ringo asked cautiously.

John shrugged again and looked back at his phone.

Ringo waited for a few seconds to give him the time to speak but John said nothing more. “Do you know where I can find George?” Ringo finally decided to ask.

Maybe that guitarist would be more talkative.

“With Paul and Pete,” John said, avoiding Ringo’s gaze on purpose. Or we it seemed anyway.

“Okay,” Ringo said encouragingly. “And Paul and Pete are ...”

“In Liverpool.”

Ringo stared at John, and this time the other stared back.

“You’re not joking,” he commented.

John gave him a tight smile before patting the mattress next to him.

“Sit here, child. I'll tell you everything about the underage musician and the two dicks who wanted some light.”

When Ringo left John in the late afternoon, the sky was already darkening. He put George’s jacket on when he started shivering. It was too big for him but sheltered him from the wind, if only a bit.

John hadn’t let go of his phone for the whole time they’d spent together. He’d been waiting for a texte for Paul and Pete who’d been sent home in the morning, and he’d finally gotten one. Ringo took out his own phone and stared at the unlit screen.

“Wait until George contacts you,” John had said. “He’s proud, that one. He's been deported two days ago; he just needs some time.”

Ringo put the phone back in his pocket and reached for the buttons of the jacket.

_I guess Lou will have to stand seeing that jacket a bit longer._

But the thought wouldn’t make him smile like it would have any other day. This time, it was bitter.

* * *

Ringo decided to ignore John's advice three days later.

The thought struck him after he'd taken his phone out of his pocket for the tenth time that day, growing slightly exasperated at the unbothered screen.

_George'll never call if I don’t. It would make the thing an event._

What really bothered Ringo was that strange barrier that the silence was thus creating between them. He didn’t want to discuss the matter of George being sent back in England because he was only seventeen, all he wanted was to talk to his friend. About anything. Even debriefing the making of the first _Harry Potter_ movie for the umpteenth time would feel good.

_Oh, I know._

Suddenly he knew what to say.

This time his phone wasn’t as useless as the ten first times. He unlocked the screen and quickly typed a text.

_Hey Geo. How's good ol' Hogwarts?_

The answer came much quicker than the expected.

_“Boring.”_

Ringo smiled at the answer. His phone, however, began to buzz before he could think of an answer.

“Hi,” George said when he answered. “Um, I called without thinking–”

It sounded like he was hesitating. Ringo hated that. Unconfident, lost George always made him feel bad. Over the weeks, he'd learned to appreciate the sheer calmness that radiated from his friend. George always knew what to choose between two options, and most of the time he made the right choice. George was assertive, George didn’t let himself be bossed around by Paul or even John.

Hearing George speak with that little, wavering voice felt like everything in the world had turned wrong.

“So,” Ringo said hurriedly as if he hadn’t noticed anything strange, “you’ve got a free period right now?”

“Yeah.”

“And what's your next class?”

“Potions. It's gonna be a pain,” George sighed.

Ringo let out a chuckle. _Two sentences. That was good._ “Potions are _always_ a pain.”

“Sure, but yesterday I got distracted and I my potion leaked out of the cauldron and there was Essence of Insanity everywhere on the floor.”

“I can picture it just fine.”

“I’ll never get invited to one of Slughorn's parties now.”

George's voice was almost relaxed now. Ringo could tell that at times he was even smiling. He himself was, at least. They continued chatting for over an hour, making up their wizard lives until George cleared his voice.

“Anyway ... When are you coming back to Hogwarts?”

“I don't know,” Ringo replied honestly.

“But I don't think it'll be that long until I’m bothering you in person again,” he added after silence answered him. “I’ve got N. E.W.T.s to prepare after all. Can't miss too many classes or I won't be able to catch up.”

“Oh, right,” George exhaled.

“Hamburg isn’t fun without you anyway,” Ringo said. “I’d much rather be at Hogwarts.”

George laughed. “Now that's a sentence written on a t-shirt I have. Oh, wait.”

Another voice said something Ringo couldn’t make out. George's muffled voice answered a few words and then some ruffling made Ringo cringe. He moved the phone a few inches away from his ear.

“Sorry. I need to go – Potions starting soon. Or my mom told me dinner’s ready. Whichever you want.”

“No problem. I could call you again tomorrow?” Ringo asked.

“Of course. And ... Ritchie? Thank you. For everything.”

George hung up and Ringo put his phone away before lying down properly on his bed. He was alone, he had still another hour before their gig began and he was tired. He could very much do with a dream or two about Hogwarts right now.

He yawned, George’s words still echoing in his head as he replied without moving his lips. _You're my best friend. It's nothing._


	8. The Movie Marathon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringo is finally back from Hamburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to take so long to update; I had trouble editing three ridiculous sentences and we WON'T talk about it.
> 
> Anyway, happy new year <3 Let's all make 2021 a great year, or at least a better one.

John poked him with his elbow. “You need to join our band.”

“For the thousandth time, you already have a drummer and I’ve got a band,” Ringo replied.

“That’s not the answer I wanted,” John commented, not upset in the least.

Ringo saved a glance towards the other side of the room. George sat there, observing them with a little smile but saying nothing.

Ringo had come back from Hamburg the night before with his bandmates. Visiting George had been the first thing on his list once he'd emerged from the deepest slumber he’d ever had at his mother’s house. When he'd arrived, he'd been surprised to find John already there.

John was overexcited, not in the least intimidating like he sometimes tried to appear when they were in clubs. In fact, he's been unusually nice to George, going as far as complimenting his playing. And he’d invited Ringo to join the band permanently. Actually, that was the fifth time he was asking that and seemed to have set his mind on the idea, as his grin seemed to prove.

“I’ll get Paul to ask you,” he said.

“That's not gonna change my answer.”

“You've _never_ seen him arch his eyebrows _like that_ , have you?”

“John, stop the banter. I've got a band. Leaving them would be treason. And kicking Pete out would be even worse,” Ringo tried to reason him.

“You could at least pretend you're flattered!”

_Merlin’s beard, he won't speak about anything else,_ Ringo thought, hesitating between amusement and irritation. He turned towards George for some support, but his friend merely smiled before looking back at his guitar. _Thanks, George._

“I _am_ flattered,” Ringo said diplomatically before changing his mind, deciding for a teasing answer instead. “But your band isn’t as a big thing as mine. You haven’t signed for a record or anything, you know.”

“Like _you_ have!”

“Not yet. But if you got to, that'd mean you're bigger than us. I might consider it then,” Ringo smiled.

John crossed his arms. _Ha!_ Ringo thought triumphantly. _You weren’t expecting that one._

“Alright!” John finally clasped his hands. “We’re gonna be famous anyway. But you'd better make up your mind before we're too famous. I might not accept you then.”

“John,” George interrupted them.

Both men turned towards him.

“Now you've extorted a signed promise from Ringo, would you mind going home? Or to Paul's, I don't care. Somewhere else than here.”

“ _That_ had the merit of being straightforward,” John said, not moving an inch before adding with a posh voice, “may I know why I should do such a thing?”

“Because Ringo and I are doing a Harry Potter movie marathon and we need to begin early if we want to see Moody locked in his own trunk before the end of the night.”

George hadn’t said half of the sentence that John was already up, brushing his clothes as if they were covered in dust.

“You should have said so immediately!” he said, fake panic in his voice. “It explains all the bad vibrations I’ve gotten coming from here!”

“Piss off,” George retorted.

“Gladly. But Ringo,” John said, turning back to the drummer, “You should really try reading _The Inheritance_ once. Preferably before you join the band.”

“I already have.”

Not one, but two shocked gasps could be heard.

“I still think _Harry Potter_ is better, but I like it. Dragons are cool,” Ringo explained.

Ignoring George's muttering, John smiled even wider than before. “And you really think that I'm gonna stop asking you to join the band?”

The two guitarists left the room and Ringo let his head rest against the back of the couch. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Hamburg had been exhausting. He'd only woken up a few hours before but already felt sleepy again.

“Hey,” George’s voice said, “join the band.”

The couch dipped slightly when he sat next to him. It's only when George nudged him with his elbow that Ringo forced his eyes to open again.

“Not sleepy,” he slurred.

“Sure thing,” George nodded before adding, “John’s gone to Paul's. Told me to ask you to join the band for him.”

“Ah,” Ringo sighed. “I knew _you_ couldn’t want me in your band.”

“At least you’re lucid.”

Ringo stifled a yawn and pinched himself. “Anyway,” he said as another yawn took control of his body, “I didn’t know we had a movie marathon planned for today.”

“I – uh – don’t know how to say it nicely – just wanted to get rid of John,” George said. He didn’t look like he regretted it in any way.

“Upbeat John is not your cup of tea, then?”

“It’s not that. I'd like to talk about it, but ... not right now.”

“Okay,” Ringo said even though he was a bit puzzled. “What about ... We really watch the first _Harry Potter?_ Maybe you'll feel up to it then.”

“I don't think you'll be able to stay awake through the whole movie,” George said.

“Is that a challenge?” Ringo said, chuckling himself at how sleepy his voice sounded.

“Only if you want it to be,” George smiled.

His friend helped him up and they went upstairs. It was the first time Ringo was seeing George’s room and discovering it replaced every idea he had about the movie for a few minutes. Of course he had to pay attention to every corner until George himself warned him that he might have to call the police for burglary intentions if he kept staring at his time turner even one more second. Ringo reluctantly backed away from the display cabinet and joined George on his bed, resting his back on the pillows propped against the wall.

“I don't have a telly and my laptop is seven years old” George warned him amiably as he turned the old engine on.

It took a few minutes before the movie was ready to begin. George then informed Ringo that he needed to take his share of the “twenty thousand pounds” the machine weighed and pushed the laptop so that it rested halfway on their legs.

Soon they were both engrossed in the movie. It had been some time since Ringo had seen it – his time in Hamburg had prevented him from watching any movie and reading any book – and rediscovering it with George was particularly pleasing.

Even so, the film went by in a haze. It could have been because Ringo was feeling so sleepy in the first place; yet he was certain he hadn’t dozed off even once. It seemed, rather, that someone had pressed on _fast-forward_ , for the movie was just going faster than he could comprehend. His only clues that this wasn’t real were George’s reactions to the movie _he_ , at least, was completely engrossed in.

When Draco Malfoy appeared for the time, George let out a snicker.

“Sorry,” he added quickly with a side glance to his friend. “I just can’t stand him.”

Since Ringo understood very well the feeling – although everyone could be redeemed, couldn’t they? – he granted George permission to keep loathing the blonde-haired boy out loud.

As the movie went by, Ringo took in George’s reactions to the scenes and tried to remember them. He might want to discuss them later with him; it had been such a long time since he’d watched a _Harry Potter_ movie with someone who actually was as big of a fan as he was – or bigger? Surely he wasn’t about to give away that crown so easily, but he felt ready to discuss that as well.

So, whenever George huffed or groaned or snickered – that last one meaning Malfoy had made a new appearance on the screen – Ringo made sure to pay extra attention to the lad sitting next to him. He even managed to capture a few of George’s broad smiles – one was when cat McGonagall transformed back into a human much to two Gryffindors’ astonishment, another when Harry discovered his Christmas presents.

Faster than Ringo wanted him to, Harry finally climbed back into the Hogwarts Express, leaving the wizarding world behind him for the summer. The credits started to roll, letting George and he stare silently at the names for a while.

“So …” George began, his voice trailing off.

“Do you want to watch the second one before telling me whatever’s on your mind?”

George considered his answer carefully, but then shook his head decidedly. “No, it’s alright. I’m ready now. Why are you pulling a face?”

Ringo giggled. “Am I? It’s just that watching the first _Harry Potter_ always leaves me craving the second one.”

He didn’t know why, but even with all they’d shared already he half-expected George to make fun of him. But his fear was unjustified; George merely smiled. “Don’t worry. We can still watch it in five minutes. We’ll just– “he put the laptop aside and rubbed his thigh with both hands “–let this thing cool off. Isn’t your leg burning?”

Ringo crossed his legs and yawned. Maybe he wouldn’t make it through _The Chamber of Secrets_ after all.

“I’m dropping my studies,” George said.

Ringo turned his head sharply towards him.

“I’ve decided – well, I haven’t applied anywhere, and it’s already September so I’d be too late anyway – I must give it a try. To the band thing. Maybe it’ll work. We seem to be going somewhere, but we won’t know until all of us commit seriously.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Ringo soothed him when he caught George’s almost pleading look. “I dropped school too. Except I didn’t like it in the first place. Are you sure you’re not gonna miss it?”

George shrugged. “I can learn on my own. I’m just … what if it doesn’t work and we’re not making any money? Or what if the band falls apart? I don’t know what I’d do then.”

“You’re gonna make it big,” Ringo retorted. “We’re all gonna be famous. The Silver Beatles and Rory Storm and the Hurricanes – the two famous bands from Liverpool. You’ll see.”

“We’re the Beatles now,” George corrected him. “But that’s what John says. He says we’re gonna make it big and that we’re gonna get lots of gigs. He says he’ll make sure of it, but …”

“You told him, then?”

“Yes. That’s why he was so … um.”

“So unlike himself.”

“Yeah. He’s only trying so hard to make you join the band because it’s his way of showing me he appreciates the effort. Stealing you from your band would be a great move – we’d be much better if you were a permanent member.”

Ringo blushed from the praise but tried to focus on the rest of the things George had said. His friend, however, went on, “It’s complicated, though. Paul doesn’t have a backup plan. Neither does John. Pete doesn’t really care and Stuart … well, Stuart stayed back in Hamburg and I don’t think he’ll come back. Out of us all, he was the only one with something else aside and he’s using that exit now. But I’m not particularly skilled at anything except playing.”

“If it doesn’t work, you could still apply to uni next year, or the year after that.”

George grimaced.

“Or … if it doesn’t work, we could all become music teachers,” Ringo tried, “we could found a school of our own.”

“I like that option better,” George smiled before scrambling onto his feet. He retrieved another DVD from his bookshelf. “So. What about you put this one on and everything, and I’ll get us something to eat?”

He threw the box in is direction before leaving the room. Ringo turned his attention towards the antique laptop. “So, how do you work, demon of the ancient world?”

“I’ve thought about it,” George announced when he came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray.

“Yes?” Ringo said, not having the faintest idea what it was about.

“Not to nag you or anything, but you should join our band like John asked you to. There can’t be _two_ world-famous bands from Liverpool. One’s already a lot to ask. And whether the Beatles make it or not … it would be better to have you in the same team, rather than witness you succeed or fail from the distance.”

“… Ravenclaws always overthink everything, don’t they?” Ringo asked.

So it seemed. George understood instantly. “Of course, you don’t have to answer anything right now. Let’s just watch Lockhart make a mess of Hogwarts.”

They launched the movie and fell into a comfortable silence as a well-known music began to play. A loud cry escaped George a few minutes afterwards, startling Ringo who jumped. The laptop fell on the side of George’s thigh.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that I nearly forgot,” George explained. “We got a gig at that place you like, what’s its name again? The one with yellowish neon lighting?”

“Congratulations,” Ringo said.

That place paid much better than the ones they played at before Hamburg. It was spacious and attracted a broader range of customers as well.

“It’s not about bragging,” George shook his head. “Pete told me he won’t turn up. Could you replace him?”

Who was Ringo to say no to that? As George pressed the _play_ button again, he still heard his friend mutter a “thanks”.

Ringo fell asleep at some point during the third movie, and George followed soon after. But it didn’t matter that much – they had days on end to complete the series now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear I'll make my best to post the last chapter quickly <3 Take care


	9. George's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's George's birthday.

It wasn’t Ringo’s fault, actually. It was Paul who had began the whole thing.

_Paul_ had been the one to say George deserved a Harry-Potter-themed birthday. Paul had been the one to say he’d back a cake and add some pink and green icing to it to make it look just like the cake Hagrid had brought Harry on his eleventh birthday.

Then _John_ had said he’d buy butterbeer and some more of these horrible Bertie Botts every flavour beans that George had made them taste in Hamburg “because it’s high time he suffers too”.

Ringo had only followed the general move. Was he to blame for that?

George, John and Paul had moved in together two months prior. They were now the happy tenants of a two-bedroom apartment. Although the word _happy_ could be discussed, considering John and Paul’s faces right now. Ringo looked at them, then at the rest of the living room, and scratched his head.

“What’s the problem with you?” Paul and he asked in perfect synchronisation.

“Exactly what I was about to ask,” John remarked.

John was currently trying to fasten a ribbon on his present for George. He’d first tried to wrap it but had given up most sensibly after his third attempt. “There,” he commented a few seconds later. “It looks horrible, but at least he’ll know it’s from me.” As he said that, John snickered and glanced at Paul, but the other lad wasn’t paying him any attention. His eyes were fixed on the large banner Ringo had pinned on the wall, hiding a part of the living-room window.

His staring, combined to his slightly picky expression, gave a clue to Ringo on what Paul’s problem was about.

“I’ll take this off right after today,” he tried to reassure Paul. “It’s not going to become a permanent decoration of your place.”

“If only I could believe you,” Paul said, his eyes unblinking and focused on the banner as if something evil was about to jump from behind it at any moment.

_That banner really isn’t that bad for a one-time use_ , Ringo thought as he inspected it one last time. True, the letters slightly tilted towards the left, but he’d painted them himself one by one in his mother’s apartment corridor. All things considered, that banner wishing a happy birthday “to the chosen one” wasn’t as bad-looking as Paul’s face seemed to imply.

“You know he’s gonna love it,” Paul huffed. He still looked pissed, but this time Ringo noticed amusement in his tone. “That’s the problem.”

“What …”

“Hush, you two,” John ordered, throwing his present on the coffee table. “I think I can hear him.”

Paul turned away from the banner. Ringo started fiddling with his shirt. They then heard the front door open and close.

George would be there in a few seconds, and Ringo felt a rush of excitement. Even though it wasn’t his own birthday, the idea of George discovering what they’d prepared for him was elating. And today, George knew nothing – he didn’t know his flatmates were here, since they had told him they’d be out all day. George himself had left in the morning to have lunch with his family. He and the rest of his friends were supposed to meet at eight at a pub that night, but not before that. George knew nothing about Paul and John’s idea to throw a more private party beforehand.

George’s footsteps seemed to echo endlessly in the uncharacteristically silent living-room. Then George himself appeared at the door. He lifted his head from his phone and stopped dead in his track.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” the three of them shouted, so loud that at least _one_ neighbour would complain, non-negotiable.

George emitted a sound that resembled a mix between _thank you_ , _oh my god_ and _what the fuck_. His eyes wandered around the room, falling on the cake. A smile made its way to his lips, widening when he squinted at the Butterbeers and sweets placed next to a neat – or not so much – stack of presents. Then, his mouth fell open and a giggle escaped him. He’d seen the banner.

“Oh my god,” he repeated, finally choosing between the three expressions.

Next thing Ringo knew, he was locked in George’s embrace. “Thank you, Ritchie. Thank you.”

Ringo hugged him back. He couldn’t do anything but smile, mostly because seeing George happy was enough to make anybody’s day, but also because he was relieved. It would have been horrible if George hadn’t liked his last-minute DIY.

“Look at him,” John snickered, “exactly what we knew would happen. He’s taking all the credit for it.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “And he wouldn’t understand when I told him so.”

George detangled himself from Ringo. “You didn’t do everything?”

“Only the banner,” Ringo smiled.

Looking deeply puzzled, George asked who’d made the cake. Paul raised his eyebrows, and extended his arms slightly before receiving a giggling George in his arms.

“You baked a Harry Potter cake for me. A Harry Potter cake!” he repeated.

“A one-time thing, I tell you. I made it in my Da’s kitchen and the ceiling still looks a bit green on a spot or two.”

“What about me?” John whined. “Everyone’s getting hugs and I’m left alone.”

That whine sounded so fake no one could fall for it, but George still let go of Paul and engulfed John in a bear hug. “The bottles and sweets, they’re yours?”

John nodded, or at least tried to. George held him even tighter.

“I didn’t even think you’d do that for me,” George said a few minutes later, examining the icing of Paul’s cake with an appreciative face.

“Well, thanks. Of course we’d also let you die in a pit if you fell,” John informed him.

“I don’t mean it like that! I know you’ll always be there for me. I’d be there for you too. I just thought _one_ party tonight was already enough.”

“You don’t turn eighteen every day,” Ringo reminded him.

George turned to smile at him.

“I …”

“Stop that!!” John interrupted them suddenly, hands against his ears and face scrunched in disgust. “That’s too many clichés for one afternoon! You guys are gonna make me puke.”

“Oh, come on Johnny boy. You know you love clichés,” Paul intervened, looking very much amused.

“I don’t!” John said. He tried to back away in the kitchen, but Paul seized his cake and followed him.

“I’ll be there for you!” he said with a sing-song voice.

John made a puking sound before he and Paul disappeared from their friends’ sight. Sounds of wrestling could be heard. “Mind the cake!” Paul shrieked. Then there was laughter, and some more wrestling.

“That went out of control really fast,” George said casually. “What’s your question?”

Ringo stared at him in awe whereas George merely waved an invisible wand in the air. _That Ravenclaw knows me like an open book. That’s right._ How could he have forgotten again? And now George wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d asked his question. Better spill it out right now than deny.

“Am I the only one who ships them?”

George didn’t even look surprised. “That’s another common point between us,” he said.

“They’re Drarry 2.0,” Ringo said, making George choke – apparently on his own spit – this time.

“I– ” he began, but was cut before he could go on.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …”

Paul and John had returned and were singing. John nodded to Ringo who joined them only a bit late.

Paul, who had walked over to George, held the cake in front of his own eyes once they were done with the song. “Why are you laughing, George? Is there something funny about my cake?”

George, though, wasn’t looking at the cake, his eyes fixed on Paul’s forehead as if he had a scar there. “Your cake is lovely,” he managed to utter between two giggles. He turned his attention towards John, but it didn’t help a bit. “What’s up with my hair?” John snarked at him. “Has it grown blonde overnight?”

George only laughed more. A chuckle escaped Ringo, who cursed himself as soon as the Gryffindor and Slytherin turned towards him.

“You know what this is about, don’t you?” Paul accused him.

“Erm … Inside joke.”

Magic was on his side. Paul and John looked satisfied by his answer. In fact, they looked like nothing could please them more than _not_ to know about it.

“In that case … George, please get over it and blow out the candles. There’ll be wax all over the cake if you don’t hurry.”

It took George a few tries, but he eventually managed. The cake tasted surprisingly good, “much better than anything Hagrid could have cooked, Paul,” as George worded it. His friend seemed happy about the praise, and told us that he’d had Jane, his girlfriend, over to help him with it.

_A redhead. Harry has his Ginny in this universe too,_ Ringo thought. He glanced at George, who had his eyes fixed on Paul in wonder as if truth had been revealed to him at last. Ringo was _certain_ they were thinking about the same thing.

“Open your presents now!” Paul said enthusiastically, oblivious to their stares.

He forced a present in George’s hands.

“No one can eat peacefully these days,” George growled just for the sake it, shoving the rest of his cake into his mouth. “What’s this?” he asked after he’d swallowed. “You drew stick figures for me?”

Although the present wasn’t larger than a leaf, it turned out to be an assortment of stickers.

“It’s for your laptop,” Paul added. “I spent hours choosing them.”

“I can testify on his behalf,” John smirked before mimicking Paul, saying, “But wait, I can’t buy this one! George said he _hated_ Slytherin once!”

“That’s not my voice!” Paul complained.

“I don’t hate Slytherin,” George informed John, grinning at the stickers. “I tolerate you.”

“Mm. Open my present then.”

“Thank you, Paul,” George told his friend as he began tearing the wrapping paper apart. “They’re perfect … John.”

George took out a notebook. Ringo leaned forward, trying to see what was written on it. The cover was orange, but apart from that …

“I love it,” George said, and Ringo squirmed in his seat. He wanted to see. Thankfully, at that moment George showed him the notebook. “Does it remind you something?”

It had a sentence Ringo knew very well written on it. _Gred, Forge and Roonil Wazlib CHECK._

“I thought I’d better buy you something with that design because there’s no way Paul and I are gonna allow _a banner like Ringo’s_ in our flat,” John explained.

“Shut up, don’t ruin everything! I’m considering you as my friend right now!” George said, punching him lightly in the arm.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to change.”

Ringo squirmed again, earning himself a questioning glance from Paul. George eyed the last present on the coffee table, much bigger than the others, and Ringo finally realised why he was growing restless. He was merely waiting for George to discover his present. He picked it up and handed it to him. “No complains allowed,” he said.

“You know me,” George said. “ _You_ could offer me a sticky figures drawing and I’d still like it.”

“I’m saying that for the other two, then,” Ringo chuckled, the uneasiness in his belly lightening only a bit.

“If it’s a banner like yours, Ringo, I promise you–” John threatened, but Ringo paid him no mind. His eyes were focused on George’s hands opening his gift. After all, no matter how well you thought you knew someone, there was always a risk you were projecting your own likes and dislikes onto them. Maybe George wouldn’t like it. Maybe he’d be disappointed but hide it with a lie. Maybe they’d even make fun of him once he was gone, and–

“Oh my god, Ritchie, thank you!” George said as he engulfed him in his second hug that day.

His tone reassured Ringo. It seemed so genuine. After all this time spent together, he’d become rather good at spotting when George was lying. His friend then released him to look at his present again.

“A game,” Paul said, peering over George’s shoulder from his seat on the couch. “You bought him a Harry Potter board game.”

A look at Paul and John’s faces allowed Ringo to definitely be sure that _they_ at least wouldn’t have liked that present; the contrast with George’s elated face was rather striking.

“What time is it?” George asked as he tried to remove the blister packaging.

“Half past four.”

“A game lasts about forty-five minutes, that leaves us enough times.”

“Time to what?” Paul asked.

It was clear that he knew exactly what George meant, and that he’d play dumb until he couldn’t.

“Come on, McCartney. We’ll choose the easiest questions for you.”

George had finally put the transparent wrapping aside, and he looked devilish.

It took some coaxing, threats – from both sides – and moans – mainly from Paul and John – but twenty minutes later they were all gathered around the board. George was already leading the game, Ringo not far behind him. Paul had managed to gather a few points, but John’s piece stood defiantly on square one.

They’d added some rules to the game. Every time one of them landed on a special square, he had to eat a Bertie Botts bean. Same thing when doubles were rolled.

Ringo stretched and leant on his hands behind his back. George and John were busy quarrelling and it was particularly entertaining, maybe because it was all meant in good humour and none of them actually planned to storm out. It was George’s birthday; what could happen?

“John, I _know_ you know the answer. It’s so simple! Come on, how many Weasley children are there?” George repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time.

“Told you, Harrison. Dunno. Please let me rot where I am, I’m perfectly contented.”

Next to Ringo, Paul let out a chuckle. John took the card from George’s hands and hiding it in the middle of the pile. “Now, who’s turn is it?” he exclaimed loudly. “Ringo!”

Ringo gestured him to go on and John made a show of taking a new card from the top of the pile.

“Wait!” George shrieked, sounding outraged. “John, I haven’t even told you the answer!”

“To be perfectly honest, George, it may be your birthday, but they could have seven children and I wouldn’t care,” John deadpanned.

Ringo burst out in laughter. Paul joined him after a second’s delay, but George shook his head in disbelief, looking mortified.

“How you can even survive a _day_ without knowing basic information is what I’d be curious to know,” the Ravenclaw muttered as he reached for his Butterbeer and drank all that was left in the bottle.

“So, _Richard_ ,” John said, looking down at the card squinting his eyes. “What’s Gilderoy Lockhart favourite colour?”

“Lilac.”

“You’re a perpetual disappointment. Correct.”

Ringo rolled the dice. Six. He moved his token to a red square no one had landed on before, and that read _draw a card from the Chance pack._

Paul wordlessly handed him the bowl of beans.

“Oh no,” Ringo whimpered.

“You shouldn’t have answered the right thing,” John reminded him. “It’s your own fault.”

“I’ll open you a new Butterbeer,” George offered sympathetically, immediately reaching for a bottle.

Paul forced the bowl into his hands. Ringo stared at the multicolour little beans. They were all so small. They couldn’t all be that disgusting, could they? He’d managed to avoid them so far, but Paul had eaten a pink one a few turns ago – which had proved itself to be shrimp-flavoured, explaining maybe his look of eagerness as he waited for Ringo to pick one.

There were yellow beans, but Ringo could have bet the was nothing like honey in them. The red ones made him wonder what the bright food colouring could possibly hide. The pink ones were out of question, and as for the purple ones … He finally opted for a green one, bringing it to his mouth under his three friends’ attentive stare. Paul drew back almost imperceptibly – he himself had thought he was going to be sick.

But none of that happened to Ringo. He munched on the bean as the others looked at him as if he’d become a grenade. The taste was surprising for sure, but to his own surprise he found out that he could have liked it – providing it had been real food in a plate, and not a sweet that tasted like vegetables.

He swallowed and smiled at Paul. “I believe it’s your turn.”

Paul stared. Ringo hunched over the board and grabbed his new Butterbeer, taking a swig before saying, “it really wasn’t that bad, you know.”

George reached for the empty box they’d discarded on the floor. “You got … You got broccoli. You got broccoli and you liked it!”

“There’s something extremely unfair about this game,” Paul stated, but he was mostly making it up. It was evident that, unlike John, he was enjoying the game far more than he’s expected. In Ringo’s opinion, there was even a chance that George and he might successfully coax Paul into reading the first book. The both of them would have to devise a plan, but that’d be for later. The telephone rang and John sprang to his feet before any of the others had even time to register what was making that noise.

“Lennon-McCartney household, what can I do for you?” he announced, throwing a daring look at George.

But George, that day, couldn’t be bothered. His face remained composed as he purposefully ignored the outrage and turned back to Ringo.

“Go on, ask Paul his question.”

“Right,” Ringo said, shaking his head as his thoughts returned to the game. “Paul, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

“I’m sorry?”

Ringo repeated the question, but it didn’t help Paul in the slightest. “How am I supposed to know that?” he exclaimed.

“Technically, it’s basic knowledge,” George said didactically. “Snape asked Harry that very question on his first day of class.”

“Ringo!” Paul said, his tone pleading.

His eyes flew between the drummer and the board. He was already far behind the two of them. Paul stared intently at the squares, as if in the hope of finding the answer somewhere.

“I’m sorry Paul,” Ringo said. “George’s right.”

“But did _Harry_ have the answer?” Paul asked.

They shook their heads at the same time. Paul straightened his back, looking determined to get the points without trying to give an answer. “Then how can you expect _me_ –”

“Stop the game,” John chimed in.

He was done dealing with the call but didn’t sit back down. He just stood before them, his eyes wider than Ringo had ever seen them without glasses. If anything, he looked slightly unwell, for which Ringo couldn’t think of a reason – after all, he was the only one out of the four of them who hadn’t eaten one of the beans yet.

“Hey Johnny, maybe you can help me with this one,” Paul said, oblivious to John’s serious face. “They asked me where to find a– what’s it called again?”

“An album,” John answered.

“What? Of course not, I know where to buy an album, thank you very much!”

“We’re going to make an album. Brian just called.”

George’s head shot up. Paul asked him to repeat. John said the words again, and suddenly they were all on their feet, hugging and shouting and jumping about the living-room. Ringo grinned widely from where he was still sat. They deserved that album, had been struggling for months and seen their music rejected by so many record labels.

“Congratulations,” he said cheerfully, standing up himself. He figured they wouldn’t finish the game that day, but he didn’t really mind. The smile on George’s face was worth the world, and Paul looked as though he was about to burst from happiness. As for John, he hadn’t looked that genuine since that sad day they’d spent together in Hamburg.

His voice seemed to remind his three friends that he was still there.

“Thank you, Rings,” Paul smiled back, momentarily pausing his waltz across the room.

But John, as usual, seemed to have something else in mind. “Congratulations yourself,” he retorted.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve just joined our band. That’s not nothing, you deserve congratulations. Which also means _you_ are going to make that album too, by the way …”

“Err …” Ringo said, not understanding a thing anymore.

George’s smile, though, grew even wider as he addressed Ringo. “Are you? Gonna join the band, for real? Now that we’ve earned ourselves a contract?”

That rang a faint bell in Ringo’s head. _Oh. Merlin’s pants. I said I’d join the band if they made it big. Oh shit._

He sat down on the couch, his head spinning a little. He wanted to blame it on the Butterbeers he’d downed but knew he couldn’t since there wasn’t any alcohol in them. _Maybe Paul and John don’t know that_ , he thought hazily, dragging his hands across his face.

Of course he wanted to join their band. They sounded good when they all played together, and on top of that they were his friends. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d better like to record an album with. But still, there was something nagging in his mind–

“What about Pete?” he asked.

He lifted his head and saw John laugh. _He’s_ laughing _. What on earth does that mean?_

“Pete left the band last week,” John spilled out.

Ringo didn’t even need to mouth the word that was on his lips. Paul and George had already said it, looking truly baffled.

“You didn’t tell us!” Paul added, looking very much like _us_ rather meant him and him alone.

“I was going to, but I was hoping for a miracle, and Brian had said we’d likely get an answer from EMI today, so I thought …”

Ringo stopped paying attention, not because he was bored but because he felt the couch dip next to him. It was George, who poked him with his elbow.

“Are you going to say yes?” he asked, searching his eyes, his tone much more quiet now, as if he didn’t want Paul and John to hear – which was impossible with how engrossed they were in their own discussion. “Or would you rather stay with your band?”

Ringo didn’t have to think about it. “I already said yes months ago,” he said.

George’s wide grin spread on his face once more. “You’re gonna have to put up with these two, you know? And with me.”

Ringo shrugged, but couldn’t refrain from grinning back.

“Well, at least …” he said, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in Paul and John’s animated faces as they were talking, oblivious to the rest of the world, Ringo and George long forgotten. He then looked down at his own hands. He’d always been a drummer, even when he didn’t own a single drumstick, he knew that now. George’s hand squeezed his briefly, and Ringo looked at him in the eyes. George was his best friend, and he couldn’t think of a better way to be young and enjoy life than to be a Hufflepuff drummer with his favourite Ravenclaw.

“At least … At least I know you’ll be there to help me pack when we’ll travel to give concerts across the world,” Ringo said, finally knowing how to end his sentence.

George nodded very seriously, before they both burst out laughing a fraction of seconds later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter! Thank you for reading it. I hope you're not disappointed by the fact they're only friends in this one; I just like platonic starrison a lot.
> 
> If anyone cares: I don't know what I'll write next, I've got a ton of ideas but I don't know how to choose. And anyway my exams start tomorrow so my life is gonna be ... interesting for a while.
> 
> Have a nice day or night <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3 i hope you liked it and i wish you a very good day or night!


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